


tell my love to wreck it all (cut out all the ropes and let me fall)

by billet_doux



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, also some small raven/finn and clarke/finn, lots of f/f, modern day AU, the lexa/raven is brief, very little though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billet_doux/pseuds/billet_doux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You met her in your senior year of high school.<br/>Everything about her was beautiful; her knotted hair, her crooked teeth, her dark skin peppered with freckles.  She was two years younger than you, but in her fifteen years she had lived much more than you."</p><p>Or; the one where Lexa loses Costia and promises to never love again.<br/>That is, until Clarke comes along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell my love to wreck it all (cut out all the ropes and let me fall)

**Author's Note:**

> This is told in second person point of view, hope you all like it! It's my first attempt at it, let me know what you think!  
> The title is a quote from the song "Skinny Love" by Birdy.  
> This was inspired by a poem written by poppyflowerpoetry on tumblr; the link to the poem can be found on my tumblr, prseltongue!

You met her in your senior year of high school.

Everything about her was beautiful; her knotted hair, her crooked teeth, her dark skin peppered with freckles.  She was two years younger than you, but in her fifteen years she had lived much more than you.

You found her vivacity charming.  She rallied for her rights and the rights of others, she spoke her mind and let everyone know her opinions.  She wore bright colors, ignoring the girls who sniggered and commented how “hot pink doesn’t look good on black girls like her,” and she wore her skirts with sneakers and wrapped scarves and belts around her waist every day.  She wrote in her journal when she was not screaming at the world, and she listened to music with big headphones resting on top of her black hair.

(You had never seen a more beautiful sight than when she walked into the building the first day of her sophomore year like she’d owned the place, wearing those bright orange headphones and ripped up jeans and oh my god you fell so hard so fast.)

**

You learned her name when she ran for student council and won, the school principal announcing the sophomore class president of 2011 to be none other than Costia Smith, who marched up to the podium with a wide smile on her red lips.

 _Costia_.

It was unusual, but beautiful, just like her.

**

The next month in September her birthday rolled around and she turned sixteen.  She’d come to school and her friends had ran up to her to hug her with little gifts in hand, and you had never been more jealous than when you saw a junior girl bend down and kiss Costia’s cheek.

**

You thought she didn’t even know you existed; but she did.  She saw you walking from class to class, dragging your feet behind you while you looked at nothing in particular and wished you could jump out the window and go home and sleep.  You’d caught senioritis and she had noticed, laughing to herself every time she passed you by, admiring your messy buns and green eyes and the way you wore your jacket off your shoulders like you didn’t give a damn about how you looked at school—and you didn’t. You would always rather be at home, sleeping or working out or doing _anything_ besides sitting in that old hag Ms. Jones’ class listening to her drone on and on about calculus; that is, you felt this all day until you would see her, pass her in the halls, get a sniff of her strong perfume.  And then, the hatred of this school would melt away and you would smile for just a moment, because her beauty made your day slightly better.

She never did come up to say hello or make an effort to be your friend for the longest time. She would nod occasionally as you would walk by, or sometimes give a small smile that made you go home and groan into your pillow because, god, a girl shouldn’t be allowed to be so cute. Eventually, by the time October came to a close and everyone was dressed up for Halloween, she marched up to your locker wearing her friend Willow’s cheering uniform and gave a tug on your cape.  You were supposed to be Batgirl, but it was a pathetic piece of yellow cloth you tied around your neck and a dumb 99 cent piece of plastic mask you wore on your face, and yet she found it endearing.  She asked you, “Wanna catch a movie sometime _?”_ and your heart couldn’t stop beating furiously all night long while you laid in bed with a goofy smile on your lips, because you were going on a date with Costia soon.

You went to go see _Silver Linings Playbook_ the day it came out and you honestly don’t remember what the movie was about because she held your hand and rested her head on your shoulder the whole time and you were too busy burning up inside to watch Jennifer Lawrence dance with Bradley Cooper.  When the movie ended she reached up and kissed your cheek and told you that you were pretty and that the two of you should go on another date soon. Of course, you agreed.

You took her to the beach in late November, holding her hand while you lay on the sand under the stars.  It was chilly, but your legs wound together and your light jackets kept you warm.  She gave you a tired smile before placing a hand on your cheek, and pressed her lips to yours for the first time.

There were many more kisses after that, snuck in between classes or when you went to her house to watch her favorite movies or when she would come over to study with you. Those geometry and biology lessons would always end up with you pinned beneath her on your white carpeted floor, tasting bubblegum on her tongue and smelling that same vanilla perfume she wore every day.

By Christmas time you were officially dating.  Her parents loved you.  They cooked your favorite meal, steak and baked potatoes, on the night before Christmas Eve. The four of you sat on the wooden floor and watched _Tangled_ on their vintage-style TV while her younger twin brothers played baseball in the back yard with the neighbor’s kids.  Her family had their own way of living, so carefree and openly, and it was so, so different than your conservative family.  Your family who made you dress up every night for dinner, who gave you pearls and rubies for your birthday instead of gift cards or the new book you wanted, who would scold you when you walked out of the door in the morning without fixing your hair or doing your makeup.

They were different from your parents, who threw a vase at your head when you came out to them.

They kicked you out on Christmas day, giving you an hour to pack your things and to “get your disgusting _lesbian_ ass out of this house!” and you ran up to her parents’ small, tight squeezed home with two suitcases and your bookbag in hand, crying and seething and wanting Costia’s loving embrace more than anything else.

You stayed there the rest of the year, and her parents let you sleep in Costia’s room with her.  There wasn’t much of a choice; their house was nice, but small, and there were only three bedrooms as it was, and there was  no way they’d let you sleep on a couch.  You fell asleep every night with your hands wound in Costia’s hair, her arms around your waist, and her lips on your collarbone, comforting you as you cried and cried and cried about your parents.

Late February, after Valentine’s Day had already passed, she handed you a single red rose and told you that she loved you.

In the spring of that year, on your eighteenth birthday in March, her parents and brothers went out of town for their baseball tournament and that was the first night you ever made love to Costia.

(It was far from perfect but it only made you love her more.)

The year drew to a close and you had chosen your college.  Your dream had always been to get out of California, to go across the country and live life on your own.  She’d cried the night you told her you had chosen NYU, and you held her close and promised that nothing would change.

That summer, the two of you spent every moment you had together.  You held hands at the dinner table, went to the carnival arm in arm when it came to town, swam every week together at the beach, and went out to eat all the time, just trying to stay close, to spend every drop of time the universe would allow you with her.

Of course, everything did change in the fall.

You weren’t at her dinner table every night, but eating in the mess hall or grabbing McDonald’s after your every-other-day 4 o’clock class.  You weren’t running your hands down her sides in her bed at night, but hugging your pillow close to your chest and crying softly, ignoring the whispers of your roommate, a girl named Raven, who would ask nicely if you were okay before giving up and going to sleep herself.  You weren’t speaking “ _I love you_ ,” in person, but through texts or emails or Skype calls when it was night for you, but she was still eating dinner or doing her homework.

You missed her terribly; you were forgetting the smell of her perfume and the taste of her lips and it scared you.  You were in love and young and suddenly life was becoming a reality and it was hard for you to keep up with Costia, to make time to see her with your busy schedule, to endure the pain of missing her so terribly across the country, to balance spending time Skyping or calling her when you should be focused on your pre-law.  You texted her then, one fall night, making arrangements to fly back to California for fall break and spend Thanksgiving, her favorite holiday, with her and her family.

It was two days before break started when you got the phone call from her crying mother, telling you to come home, not for the family dinner, but because Costia was in the hospital.

You had never moved so fast in your short life, not even when you ran track and cross country in your high school years.  You were out of New York and in California by nightfall that day, and you rushed to the community hospital where you heard the sobs from Costia’s parents and brothers from all the way down the end of the hallway.  You froze by the door of her room, seeing her mother fall over Costia’s body, begging for her baby girl back.

You sat in the back of the court room the next month during your winter break, hatred pouring from your veins toward the bigot who’d shot her dead in his convenience story because she was “ _a threat_.”

(The whole courtroom knew what he meant; _you_ knew what he meant: she was black and with her _black_ _boy_ best friend in a convenience store at night, and the white guy behind the register was a bigot who was scared for no good reason.)

She’d just been reaching for her cell phone, the witness and Costia’s best friend, Harlem, said; not a gun like the man had claimed.

**

The year went by slowly and you found it harder and harder to care about much.  You went to classes and studied and got all A’s.  You would sob into your pillow on particularly bad nights, but most you spent staring at the wall or studying.

(The night Raven had finally had enough of your sulking she made you talk, and she held you in her arms the whole night while you cried, fingers running through your hair and pressing her lips comfortingly on your skin while telling you you’d be okay, just like Costia did when you first moved in with her.)

In January you told yourself to focus on your studies.  You turned down offers left and right for dates, promising yourself that you wouldn’t let yourself fall so hard again. Not for anyone else.  You loved your parents although they were tightly wound and conservative, while you were more accepting and liberal.  You thought maybe, just maybe, they’d accept you; you were their daughter, after all.  But they kicked you to the curb like they’d done to the dying stray puppy you’d brought in the house when you were seven.  You loved Costia with all your heart, and she was gone.  Your parents would never come back for you, and Costia wouldn’t even have the chance to.

Valentine’s Day passed and you didn’t shed a single tear, because you decided that love was weakness.  Love was weakness, you said, because it made you vulnerable.  You were vulnerable when you loved and trusted your parents enough to tell them who you truly were, and they disowned you without a second thought.  You were vulnerable with Costia, opening up to her and loving her like you’d done to no other, and she was gone, leaving you to be weak and mourn her loss and forget how to live life.

You stopped functioning those cold December and January months.  You wanted to live again, and you knew that if you loved the way you loved before again that you would be left feeling so empty once more, and you couldn’t let that happen.  You could afford no distractions; love was pointless, you said, and would distract you from your studies.  Love would take your eyes off the goal you’d had since you were a child of being a successful lawyer.  Love would make you weak and open you to harm again, and you never wanted to feel the pain you felt with Costia.

You and Raven signed up to be roommates again the next year; you had an understanding, and the beginnings of a friendship.  The summer came and went and you rented an apartment in New York for those hot months, too sad to return to the house that was Costia’s, and unwelcome in your parents’.

**

It was in the middle of July when you went to a coffee shop tucked away in the middle of downtown New York that you truly smiled for the first time in months.  The barista, a girl whose name tag read ‘Clarke’ had spelled your name _Leksa_ , and you laughed a little when her face went bright red as she apologized over and over again.

You went back to the coffee shop called Nook’s every morning for the rest of the summer.  The second time you came, Clarke smiled and spelled your name right.  The tenth time you came, it was pouring outside and no one else had come in, so Clarke brought over a pastry to you, setting it down saying it was “on the house!” with a cheerful smile. On August 13th, a dreadfully humid Wednesday, Clarke scribbled her number on your cup of coffee cup to go, biting her lip as she handed you your cup.

You could tell that Clarke thought you were attractive.  The bite of her lip that day, the way she would give you free things from time to time with winks, the way she would occasionally come sit across from you at your booth when you would stay and enjoy the view of the city, her head tilted to the side, her eyes focused on your lips; they said it all.  You couldn’t deny that Clarke was attractive, too.  Her blonde hair was like spun gold; her blue eyes were the sky.  Her chapped lips and bright white teeth were beautiful, and she was beautiful.  You’d noticed her figure, her rounded breasts and wide hips, and you had indeed wondered what her cute laugh would sound like against your skin.

Love was one thing, you decided, but lust was another.  You did not love Clarke, you told yourself, and you never would, but you would be more than willing for a distraction from time to time.

Two days later, you stared at the old empty coffee cup on your kitchen counter, before grabbing your phone.

_Let’s get something to eat. –Lexa_

You went out to her favorite Japanese place a week later, and found out much about her.  She was twenty years old, a year older than yourself.  She was working for a nursing degree to appease her mother, who wanted her to work in some type of medicinal field, but her dream was to create beautiful art.  Art, you found, especially in the form of charcoal and paint.

“You’ve got a great figure,” Clarke had said, leaning back in the wooden chair while waiting for her food.  “I’m not usually so forward, Lexa, but I have a project due soon for my sketching class.  I need someone to model for me.  Would you, perhaps, be willing?” She asked, giving you a nervous smile.

You had raised your eyebrows then, sensing the implications.  “You need a nude model, Clarke?”

She had nodded, shrugging a little as her cheeks flushed.

You began to wonder what her cheeks would look like, not when flushed with embarrassment, but with pleasure beneath your touch.

You agreed.

**

She was not awkward about it the next week when you went to her apartment off campus.  She went to NYU, you’d realized, but the two of you had not run into each other before. Her place was cozy, homey, and covered in paintings and sketches either hanging on the walls or scattered across furniture.  She asked you where you would be comfortable lying, and you were surprised by your own presumptuous answer.

“Your bed,”

She’d frozen then, before giving you a look and nodding her head.  “Sure,” she said, gathering her supplies in her arms, before leading you down the narrow hallway.  She opened her bedroom door for you and you walked in, looking around and admiring her room while she got ready.  Pictures were propped up all across her desk in frames, or taped to the walls. You noticed several pictures of her and a boy, and you asked if he was special to her.  “Oh, Wells?”  She asked, giving a sad smile.  “He was my best friend.  He got in a car accident last summer and passed away.  I guess we did have sort of a thing…we kissed and stuff, and I had a crush on him, but college kind of separated us.  He went to George Mason near DC, so I never got to see much of him that last year…” she trailed off, before shaking her head and bringing a small fold out desk beside the bed, placed in front of an old wooden stool.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you were.  But you didn’t expand. “Don’t you have some work to do?”  You said then, pulling off your shirt, and Clarke laughed once more.

(You decided that, while Costia’s laugh would always be the most beautiful sound to you, Clarke’s laugh was as melodious as the birds in spring.)

In minutes you were naked on Clarke’s bed and she was staring at every curve on your body, every bump and bruise and nook and cranny, and later, when she showed you the finished sketch, you looked at her lips instead of the art.

Clarke noticed, and she let out a small noise that made your heart flutter.

No, you reminded yourself.  This is not love, this is lust.

And then she moved closer, pushing your hair out of your eyes before bringing her lips down on yours.

In seconds the drawing was tossed aside and she was as naked as you. In a matter of minutes, you got to see exactly what her skin looked like flushed under your touch and hear what her laugh sounded like when against your bare skin, and it was even better than you imagined.

**

The school year started up again and you and Clarke hooked up often.  You insisted it was a friends-with-benefits kind of thing, and Clarke agreed; she was pining after the older kid who was a friend of her friend’s brother, anyway, a boy named Finn, who lived out of town but came upstate often to visit.  When she told you this after you’d screwed her for the fifth time, a shred of jealously ran through you, before you chided yourself for feeling anything for Clarke.

Your relationship with Clarke was purely physical until the one year anniversary of Costia’s death.  That same weekend you mourned alone in your dorm room refusing to cry, you got a text from Clarke.

_Finn finally asked me out to dinner!_

You responded:

_That’s great._

She texted back:

_I think we might be dating._

You say nothing.  She texts back a whole paragraph hour later.

_Thanks for everything, girl.  I’m gonna have to call it quits though!!! It’s official!! He said that he broke up with his girlfriend Reyna or something last week and he wants a week or two to get over her before we start to date. I feel kinda bad, like I’m stealing him? But he ended it with her, so that’s his call, right? Yeah…but he’s so sweet and he even made me a necklace so that’s kinda cool? It’s made of metal and stuff so idek how he did it. Well, I gotta go, Finn’s leaving for his home town and I wanna go say bye!_

The pain of missing Costia for exactly one year and losing Clarke for good on the same day was too much, and you cried for the first time since the bitter cold of January.

**

You texted Clarke from time to time, just to see if she’s alright, but you didn’t go back to the coffee shop again.

**

Break rolled around and you wentback to Cincinnati with Raven to stay with her.  Her family wassweet and welcoming, but Ohio is cold and you missed the warm beaches of California.

**

The second semester started up and you saw Clarke around campus a few times.  She waved politely but never spoke to you.

**

Raven stomped into the dorm a mess two weeks after the semester began, pulling her necklace off and chucking it against the wall, letting out a scream in anger before falling back on her bed.  You moved quickly, going to her side. “Raven?” you asked quietly.

Her jaw clenched.  “Some girl is fucking my boyfriend,” she said, looking up at the ceiling to keep tears from falling.

“Are you sure?”  You asked her.

She sat up.  “He came back today from Cinci to visit me.  We went out to dinner. He left his phone on the table when he went to wash his hands. She kept texting him and texting him while he was in the bathroom.  Her contact name was ‘my princess’, if that’s not giveaway enough, and she kept asking when he’d be over, what movie they were going to see tonight, telling her she loved him.”  She scoffed, bringing her hands up to her face.  “Did seven years mean nothing to Finn?  Did he get bored with me?”

You put your hand on Raven’s leg.  “Listen, Raven, any guy who would cheat on you is a total ass.  Anyone would be lucky enough to date you.”

“I broke up with him.”

“Good.”

It went quiet. Raven looked at you then, her dark eyes scanning your figure.  You began to say something, but the next thing you knew, Raven was on top of you and she was tugging off your clothes and you didn’t stop her, because she was hurting and you were still hurting over Clarke even though you refused to admit it, and you knew you both could use the angry sex.

The next morning, you woke up with Raven’s knee shoved between your legs and bite marks all over your body.  You began to think, and it all clicked.  Raven’s boyfriend—Finn.  You never met him, Raven said he was in Cincinnati, and you never questioned it, you were just happy for her. Clarke had met a boy named Finn, who lived in another state, who visited her friends in New York, and who promised to break up with his girlfriend “Reyna”, which sounded awfully too close to Raven, to be with Clarke.  Clarke’s Finn made her a necklace of metal; Raven’s had always worn a necklace made of metal that she’d told you was given to her by her boyfriend.  You knew it may be a coincidence, but it didn’t settle well with you.  Raven was your friend, and Clarke was...well, you didn't quite know what Clarke was to you, but you couldn't let either of them go on with such a lying, cheating bastard.

You told Raven your concerns when she woke up, and she didn’t believe you.  It wasn’t until you showed her Clarke’s snapchat story with her Finn and compared it to a picture of Raven with the same Finn until you were sure yourself and Raven’s went silent.

You were not scared of many things, but Raven’s anger was a test against your courage.

“Finn’s the bad guy here, not Clarke.  Please,” you said, resting a hand on her arm, “don’t hate Clarke.”

Raven shook her head.  “Finn lied to me.  Your booty call girl didn’t have any idea.  And she waited a while, thinking we were done, so,”  She smiled then a little, looking up at you.  “I can’t be mad at her.  She didn't know.  And I know you’ve got it bad for her.  What kind of friend would I be if I was pissed off at your girlfriend?”

You turned bright red then, shaking your head.  “No, I don’t! She’s not—what we had was a beneficial partnership for both of us.”

“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes.  Raven huffed.  “Sorry I jumped you,” she muttered, before getting dressed fully and leaving for breakfast.

You said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

It was only when you called Clarke to tell her what was happening with Finn that you realized you were in love with her.  You realized this, because she called you pathetic for making up excuses to get back with her and screamed that you had your chance to confess your feelings.  You realized this, because Clarke called you low for making up lies and to never talk to her again.  You realized this, because Clarke confessed that she had feelings for you since the day she spelled your name wrong and loved drawing you and kissing you and having sex with you and she had to choose to go after you or Finn, and she chose Finn because you were so damn adamant about not having feelings for her that it broke her heart. You realized this, because when Clarke hung up, you felt the same emptiness inside of you as you did when you watched your first love’s coffin be lowered into the ground.

**

Time passed and you ignored your heart’s yearning for Clarke.  It’s good, you said to yourself, that Clarke shut you out of her life.  It’s good because now you don’t have the chance of being with her, and now you can’t get hurt anymore.  You _can’t_ let her hurt you anymore.

But April came and Clarke showed up at your door, teary eyed and panting.  She shoved you against the wall and pulled your shirt off, kissing your neck, your breasts, down your stomach as your eyes fluttered closed.  She was tugging at your shorts before you realized what was happening and stopped her, and she cried into your neck.  “You were right,” she said, and your heart broke for her.

“Of course I was,” you told her, wrapping your arms around her.  “I would never try to ruin your relationships to be with you.”

“But do you love me?” She asked, looking up at you with the most pitiable look you’d ever seen.

You didn’t want to, but you did.  You couldn’t let your heart break again, you couldn’t go through that pain you went through with Costia.

But Clarke was Clarke and she was there, and you were in love with the girl whose eyes reminded you of the sky and hair reminded you of the stars.

“I do,” you said, and she slumps against your body, crying and crying and mumbling how she isn’t ready, how it was a mistake to come here and hurt you, how she loves you too and wants to but is hurting.

It was enough for you for now, so you held her close.

**

Now, its two years later.

Clarke sits on your shared bed, kissing your cheek.  “I’m glad you moved in,” she says, and you are too.

You waited a year for her.

She had become your best friend, always by your side.  You knew she loved you and she knew you loved her, and it was enough for the both of you for the time.  There were test dates, where the two of you would go out to dinner or to movies.  You held hands and, admittedly, you’d made love once or twice out of frustration for waiting for the two of you to both be ready.

You were still sorting out if you wanted to bother loving.  You did love Clarke, but if you walked away, you would eventually learn to not forget her, but accept that you couldn’t love her, as you had done with Costia.  It would be hard, but you could leave and never look back—you were strong enough to give up wishing for Costia back, you would be strong enough to do the same for Clarke.

And for Clarke, she was becoming her own person again.  She wanted to take her time to forget Finn and his lies.  When she did, she moved on to loving herself first, and you were okay with this.  She dropped her major in nursing and took up one in the arts, and you were proud of her.  She moved out of her apartment and into a new one; a new start, a place with a real studio for her to work in instead of the old ratty fold up desk she’d used when she first drew you.

When you decided to give it a chance, and she decided she was ready for a relationship, you gave it a chance.

And you’re glad you gave it a go, and you’re glad that you waited for her and chose the way you did, because she is everything in a person you love.  She’s beautiful and funny and passionate and a wonderful lover and she reminds you of the reasons you fell in love with Costia and gives you so many, many more reasons to love _Clarke_ , and this year has been the best year of your entire life.

And now, you’re here with Clarke in your own little home, and you’ve never felt more in place.

Clarke leans forward, then, and gives you a kiss.  She giggles against your lips and pulls you forward by the shirt, and you can’t help but smile as she opens her mouth.

You’re under Clarke in no time and she’s moving above you, taking off your clothes with ease and pressing kisses down your skin.  She’s learned to play your body like a fiddle and you love it; you love the feeling of her lips on your skin and her nails pressing into your thighs and her hair tickling your legs when you wrap them around her head.  You love the little sounds she makes when she makes love to you, the way she sets your skin on fire, the way she moves with such domination, such familiarity, like your body is hers to own and hers alone—and it is, it’s all for her, you say, and it’s scary because you’re so in love that you’re giving yourself to her so fully and you’re so _weak._ But then she moves her mouth ever so slowly and your knuckles are white as you grasp the bed that you now share with the woman you love.  You’re calling out her name in a hoarse voice in no time, your hands moving from the white sheets to golden hair, and you feel so, so utterly loved by Clarke Griffin, it’s indescribable.

She laughs afterwards when you’re staring at the ceiling, trying to even out your breathing.  You move to put your hands on her, but she clucks her tongue and says, “Later, we still have unpacking to do.”

You tug your shirt and underwear on, not bothering the rest.  There’s only a few boxes left to be unpacked; one of which, your books.  Clarke makes easy progress at that box while you finish putting your clothes in the drawers Clarke gave you—it’s all so domestic, and you love it.  Suddenly she gasps, and you turn to see what she’s looking at.

In her hands is a copy of _The Canterbury Tales_ which was yours in senior year.  “I loved this book,” she says, opening it up and flipping through.  A picture falls from chapter three, and she takes it in her hands.  She stares at the picture then, nodding slowly.  “This is…Catia, yeah?  You’ve only talked about her a few times; I know it’s hard to talk about.”

“Costia,” you say, your voice very soft.

“She was beautiful,” Clarke says, admiring the golden hazel that was Costia’s eyes.  “I can see why she was your first love,” she grins.

You move to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.  “She had a personality as beautiful as she was,” you say, and you realize that for the first time in a long time, you’re talking about Costia without feeling sad.

She tucks the picture back in the book, before turning to face you.  “Tell me about her.”  Clarke demands, tucking her hair behind her ears.

You say: “I dated her my senior year of high school. She had the most beautiful smile in the whole world.”

You don’t say: “Sometimes when I see you smile, I think of her.”

You say: “She was younger than me, by two years.”

You don’t say: “Her sixteen years were years of friendship and summer that warmed my eighteen years of loneliness and winter.”

You say: “You know, occasionally when you get your bubblegum kicks and you chew a lot of Hubba Bubba, you taste just like she used to,” and Clarke gives a small smile.

You don’t say: “I wish I could forget the taste of her mouth, sometimes it still haunts me in my sleep.”

Clarke asks how much you still love Costia.

You say: “Costia was my first love.  I won’t deny that a part of me will always be fond of her, and hold a special place in my heart for her.  But she’s only a part of my life, now; a part that’s passed.  You mean the world to me, Clarke, and I love you more than I ever loved her.”

You don’t say: “But back then, I loved her more than anyone else.”

The things you don’t say, Clarke knows, which is exactly why they don’t need to be said.

Instead, she wraps her arms around your neck and reminds you of Wells, and how she, too, knows what you feel when you think of Costia.

“But I’m yours now, yeah?” She asks, and kisses the corner of your mouth.  “And you’re mine.  And I’m quite happy like this,”

You rest your forehead against hers.  “I’m happy, too.”

**

You met her in your freshman year of college.

Everything about Clarke is beautiful; her silky hair, her cross-bitten teeth, her porcelain skin disturbed by the one small birthmark she has on her chest.  She’s a year older than you, and in her twenty three years, she’s lived much, and so have you.

You find Clarke’s vivacity charming.  She paints with a passion to show her experiences through her life, and the experiences and lives of others.  She wears muted colors, ignoring the fashion trends of bright colors and halter tops and heels, and wears her jeans with flats and wears a flannel every day of her life.  She sketches in her sketchbook when she is not laughing with the world, and she listens to music with one earbud in and one hanging down, so she can always hear life going on around her.

(You’ve never see a more beautiful sight than when she walks into the apartment, because this place is yours, and yours together, and she’s listening to her music with one earbud in while she moves to the couch and pats for you to sit next to her, and oh god, you’ve taken forever to come to terms with this, but you’ve fallen in love with Clarke Griffin and you’re never, ever looking back.)

**Author's Note:**

> you can follow me on tumblr or ask for writing requests at prseltongue.tumblr.com


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